


To Lost Time

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reunion Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:09:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6792583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is not enough time to do what he wants to do. This will have to be enough until he can reach Paris. (Coda fic for 3x01)</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Lost Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> Look, I swear that I'm going to write coda fic for all the eps, not just the first one. BUT THE FIRST ONE IS SO MUCH. Anyway. **SPOILERS.**
> 
>  
> 
> This is written for the prompt JL gave me: "He defiled a convent, he can defile a monastery. Rushed portamis make-up sex at the monastery before they all return!" It was originally a tumblr prompt but it ended up going long so just posting it here directly. Anyway, what it says on the tin!

They’d laughed together again. It was hard to believe, in the moment, but it felt natural – the way they fell back into place, just like before, just as if no time had passed between them. That laughter is still ringing in his ears, and that’s why he feels bolder when he reaches out, closes his hand around Porthos’ elbow, and tugs—

“Porthos,” he whispers, when Porthos sways into his space. 

And Porthos looks at him. His expression is soft for a moment, in the darker light of the monastery. It isn’t as soft as he might remember, but there’s the hint of a smile there – the kind of reassurance, perhaps, that he knows now. 

Aramis’ eyes are still misted from his prayer to God – that resolution, that moment of feeling steadied after four years. It isn’t that he was unhappy. But it’s that feeling of belonging – never closer to God than riding side-by-side with Porthos, hurled across a pathway by the force of an explosion. That certainty, that surety—

“Porthos,” he says, softer, lets the full weight of his name fall across his tongue. How had he gone four years without speaking his name? How had he gone four years without looking into his face, seeing too much reflected back at him? He’d gone four years with his brothers never far from his thoughts, but like this—

Like this—

And then Aramis tugs – curious, hesitant despite the confidence pooling in his belly. He doesn’t know what Porthos sees in his expression – hopes he feels and sees the calm there, the surety. The reassurance. The confidence: he’ll never leave again. He never could. He was always waiting to fall back to his side – a pendulum swinging. It is the natural progression. It is the nature of it all. 

He tugs him in close and—

Porthos leans in and kisses him – and it is not gentle. It is a hard drag of teeth across his lip, and Aramis gasps first, groans second, and clings to him. Porthos shoves up into his space, into a small alcove, Aramis’ head thumping hard against the stone wall there. He hisses out into the kiss but remedies the spike of pain by sucking Porthos’ tongue into his mouth, moaning out and pulling Porthos in closer, closer still – as close as he can manage—

It’s been so long. So long since this. 

“I’m coming back with you,” Aramis whispers into his mouth. A reassurance and a revelation. They are both going back. They are both going back together. 

Porthos slots into his space, presses his thigh up between Aramis’ legs. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says back, voice soft – a hitch in his breath that Aramis doesn’t want to hear. Not yet. Not like this.

Aramis kisses him deeper, steals both their breaths, drags his mouth against his to find that silence. His hands move desperately against him – not enough to unlatch and unclip the armor, but to tug hard at the long blue sash. He doesn’t have enough time to do what he wants to do – never enough time. He wants it to last, but he also knows it can’t, not like this. Back home, back home together—

He wants it to last. He will have to settle with quick, just this once. He remembers a time, four years ago, further still, when he would tease Porthos for being quick, for being impatient—

Now he can hardly keep his hands from shaking. His breath hitches at the sight of the blue sash, though, at the reminder: Porthos never used to wear this. Aramis was always the one who did. 

“This,” Aramis says, breathless. He doesn’t know what else to say. 

_You still wear this—_

_You never wore this before—_

_Is this because—_

“Yeah,” Porthos says, and bites at his lip, drags his hand over his trousers, squeezes around his cock, already pathetically half-hard. Aramis gasps, tips his head back. Porthos says, softly, “Stop talking.” 

Aramis is happy to comply. He tugs the sash off, lets it slip from his fingertips. He fumbles with Porthos’ trousers, doesn’t have time to undo the armor, will have to settle for this. He grinds his hips down hard against Porthos’ thigh, though, and he moans out in a pathetic whimper. This will have to do—

He turns them, pushing Porthos to the wall. Kisses him. They are in a house of God – he is a monk, was a monk, he is a man of God—

And he sinks to his knees as if in worship, mouths at Porthos’ cock through his trousers like a man starved. 

“You’re far away,” Porthos says and Aramis tips his head back to look at him. He lifts his hand, tugs his ribbon free, lets his hair fall – and never breaks his eyes from Porthos. 

“You can have me,” Aramis says, “As many times as you want, as many as you need – but I— I need this, Porthos.” 

He needs this. Needs to touch him. Needs to breathe him. To taste him. To center himself around him again, to revolve around him – just as he always has, just as he always will.

_We learned to live without you,_ Porthos had said. 

Aramis closes his eyes. Porthos is quiet, watching him. Aramis can feel the weight of his gaze. Porthos winds his fingers into his hair. Tugs. 

It has been a long time. Aramis’ hands fumble when he reaches for Porthos’ belts, undoes them, tugs his trousers down enough to free his cock. He looks at it for a very long moment. Blood rushes up his neck, settles on his cheeks as he reaches, palms at Porthos’ cock. 

Porthos gives a full-bodied shudder, like a shock is running through him. Aramis looks up at him, feeling breathless even just from this. He wants it to last. God, he wants it to last, but—

But there is no time. And he needs this. And he needs Porthos. 

“You’re so big,” Aramis says, and feels like ten years ago, the first time he pressed up against Porthos, kissed him, felt the swell of his cock against his hip. He hadn’t forgotten, not really – but it is another thing entirely to hold him like this after so many years, to feel the weight of his cock against his palm, the way his fingers wrap around the bulk of him, at the base, squeezing. 

Porthos laughs, just like the first time ten years ago – ducking his head. His hair – so long now, curling at his temples, over his forehead – falls forward and nearly covers his eyes. He is beautiful. He as beautiful as he was then, as he has always been beautiful. Aramis wants to say so.

And so he does: “You’re so beautiful.” 

“Shut up,” Porthos says, laughter in his voice, but a distant edge. “Shut up and fuck me.” 

Aramis laughs. There is a distance between them even as they tread closer and closer. But there is time still. There is time – they will get there. All will be well again. 

Aramis shuffles forward on his knees, already aching on the cold stone floor of the monastery, and takes Porthos into his mouth. He tries too much too soon, not used to it anymore, the ache in his jaw already starting – and he chokes. Backs off. 

Porthos lets out a shaky laugh and Aramis bubbles out a delirious little giggle, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Well,” he says, prim. He strokes Porthos’ cock, lets Porthos rock up into his fist with jerky little movements. He looks up at Porthos, grinning. “Alright, let me try that again.” 

“Take your time,” Porthos says even when they both know d’Artagnan and Athos will be looking for them soon – much less the possibility of one of the monks passing by. But that’s what fuels Aramis on – wants, so desperately, to take his time, to dive headfirst back into the danger. 

Instead, he leans forward and suckles around Porthos’ cockhead, swirls his tongue around the lip, lathes his tongue gently, stroking at the base. Porthos groans above him, trying actively to keep muffled despite Aramis’ attempts. Being quiet would be most prudent. And yet he wants to make Porthos shout. 

Aramis kneeling before him like this, he lets his own body move in time to Porthos – falling back into this rhythm as if it has not been years, only moments away from each other. He mouths around Porthos’ cock, fueled on by Porthos’ moans. And it’s good – it’s so good. It’s like he remembers. His jaw aches as he stretches his lips around him, tongue pressing against skin. A pleasant ache. He wants this. He wants all of this. 

He looks up at Porthos – locks eyes with him as he laps at his cock head, curls his tongue, strokes his hand over him. His hand glides, his tongue swirls. He is slow at first, despite their urgency. It has been years since he’s done this, but the ache is the same, pleasant and memorable. He remembers this. He remembers the flex of Porthos’ fingers in his hair, the way his lips part, his teeth drag over his bottom lip, as he looks down at Aramis. The way his hair curls over his eyes is new, there are scars on his hands he doesn’t recognize, but—

This is the same. Being on his knees before Porthos, laying worship to him—

He has never been closer to God than like this, on his knees before Porthos, pressing kisses and prayers against the length of his cock—

His free hand grips Porthos’ hip, guides him forward, coaxes Porthos to movement – shallow thrusts into his mouth. Porthos is cautious at first, watching his face, making sure he won’t choke. This, too, Aramis remembers. This, too, he will do again perfectly in time. Like this, it is imperfect: he has to back off to keep from choking, his movements are slow and uncoordinated. He feels like a virgin again. Porthos is big and thick in his mouth, his lips stretched, his throat aching – and it’s good. It’s so good. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, mouthing against his cock, peppering his lips over him, smattering of kisses and licks. Porthos is panting above him, body shaking. He licks from base to tip, looks up at him, suckles at the cockhead. He wants so much. Too much at once. He wants it all. 

“Look at you,” Porthos answers, voice hushed – wonderment, devastation. He, too, is remembering what they’d pushed back for the last four years. Aramis keens out, swallows down around him. He grips Porthos tight, looks up at him – would say too much if he weren’t busy licking and swallowing down around Porthos’ cock. 

_Yes, look at me,_ he wants to say. _Never let me go again –_ a cruel thing to think: Porthos did try to bring him home. It hadn’t been the right time. _Never let me go:_ a command that could only make Porthos bow away from him as if punched in the gut. 

“Look at you,” Porthos says again, tugs on his hair, rocks in shallow thrusts into his mouth. He sounds disbelieving. He sounds overwhelmed. “ _Fuck._ ” 

Aramis knows. He knows that feeling. Knows what Porthos is not saying. 

Porthos moves faster. Aramis whines out and suckles around him, sweeps his tongue—

Swallows him down when Porthos comes. He tries to tug Aramis back but Aramis won’t go, anchors himself to Porthos’ hips, bobs his head, drinks him down. This feeling, too, is overwhelming—

Aramis chokes again, backs off, the come spilling from his lips. Some of it falls onto his knees but he ducks forward quickly, licks at the cockhead, swallows the rest that he can catch and suckles. Porthos moans out, weakly, fisting his hands in his hair. This, too, is not quite the same – the restraint in which Porthos holds himself back, Aramis’ inability to complete. 

They stay like that only for a moment.

Then Porthos says, voice hitching, heartbroken, “You’re too far away.”

Aramis understands now. 

“Forgive me,” he whispers, his voice suddenly weighted – the idea of being far away from Porthos now unbearable, devastating—

He rises to his feet, sways into Porthos’ space – and lets Porthos pull him to him. He hugs him tight. The armor is uncomfortable against his cheek, but Aramis squeezes into his space, nuzzles into his neck, kisses shakily and sloppily at Porthos’ racing pulse-point. He clings tight. He holds on. He lets Porthos slide his thigh between his legs again and press up. He rocks against Porthos, seeking that friction. 

Porthos’ hand finds his way beneath his trousers, fists around him, strokes him off to a shaky completion. He cries out in a weak whimper against Porthos’ neck – jerks his head back enough to kiss at Porthos sloppily, clinging. 

“I’m here,” Aramis says between kisses – one kiss, then a second, desperate little exhales of breath punctuated by the slide of his mouth against Porthos’. “I’m here. I’m not leaving. I’m here.”

Porthos’ hands sweep over him. He lifts his hand, fingers slick with Aramis’ come. He kisses Aramis then licks at his fingertips, cleaning himself. Aramis whimpers, leans in and kisses Porthos sloppily, licks at his fingertips and then into his mouth – clenching tight to the hinges of Porthos’ armor, tethering himself, staying closer. 

He’s shivering in the cold air of the monastery, shuddering in the aftermath of orgasm, of feelings he’s been staving off for four years, satisfaction and frustration and pain, and love—

He’s going home. 

“I’ll never leave you again,” he says – a promise he cannot rightly keep, not when death is inevitable and impossible to predict. But—

Porthos kisses him – and there is a sweeter edge to it now. Aramis feels him shift, feels him melt. Aramis touches his hair, his cheeks, his earring – slides his hands down his neck, kneads at the back of it, at the bumps of his spine. There’s a faint shadow of a scar at his shoulder, peeking out under his coat, that Aramis does not recognize. 

He lets his hand linger on Porthos’ cheek. Porthos leans into the touch. They are quiet for a long moment, only looking at each other. 

Then Porthos says, “I’ll make sure of that.” 

And Aramis nods. Smiles. Feels as if his heart will burst. “I would expect no less, my friend.”


End file.
